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Peter bolted upright, sweat dripping down his back and his chest heaving. His mind is full of hazy images: fleeting hands, sticky juice, a rumbling voice, his tattered suit lying in a corner. None of it really made sense. It never did. But the panic flooding through his veins is always the same. He knows he won’t be able to go back to sleep.
His heart is still hammering in his chest when he realizes his suit is wet. And he is suddenly acutely aware of the mask plastered to his face. Great, so he’s in an unfamiliar place and of course, this had to happen.
Four years.
It’s been four whole years since it happened last. Peter really thought he was past this.
And yet one tiny traumatic childhood memory still haunts him.
He is a 23-year-old man who still wets the bed. Ridiculous.
He knows it doesn’t affect him the same anymore. Skip was put in jail long ago and probably got out in due time, living his own life separate from Peter Parker, to never touch him or even breathe in his general direction again. Both May and Ben made sure of that. He knows this. And yet, his body still reacts without any rhyme or reason. Playing vigilante certainly didn’t help.
The last time it happened he was 19 and sleeping over Gwen’s dorm. He jolted awake the same as he did earlier, chest heaving and palms sweaty. But that time, Gwen was beside him, her sleep-filled voice whispering ‘Peter? Are you alright?’ with a manicured hand already placed on his back and the other rubbing his chest firmly just how he liked it. She was the only one allowed to touch him like that.
The moment he awoke he knew what had happened. And he was so incredibly embarrassed. It was one thing when it happened at home, in his childhood room where it was safe and familiar. And alone. Where he could face his own shame in solace.
He would try and quietly tiptoe to the washer, balled-up sheets in his hands. Yet May would always wake up anyway and insisted on doing the laundry for him. Gwen was no different.
Peter remembers being so upset with himself. He rarely got to spend the night with Gwen as both their schedules were hectic. And he ruined it by wetting the bed of all things. He really beat himself up over it. He would have rather gotten his period at this rate despite being on T for over a year at that time. Anything else but wetting the bed over some hazy dream that shouldn’t affect him anymore.
But of course, Gwen was as sweet as ever and sat with Peter in the communal laundry room while they waited for the sheets to wash. He got her ice cream from the convenience store to make up for it, although she swore she didn’t need anything from him. But he knew she couldn’t turn down strawberry ice cream. So they spent the night eating ice cream while sitting on top of the dryer, waiting for the sheets to finish. They were able to sleep in during the morning, Peter wrapping Gwen in his arms, his head tucked under her chin. His favorite way to sleep. His heart twisted at the bittersweet memory.
Now, however, he’s alone…and not at home.
Where was he?
His mind was still foggy, unable to piece everything together from the night previous.
If Peter is anything, it’s unlucky. And even though he is very aware of this fact he still wonders how he ends up in these situations.
i.e. lying bruised and bloody on a random person’s couch.
Definitely not his smartest move.
Besides the nerves leftover from his nightmare, his spidey senses were calm. So he can’t be in immediate danger. In front of him is a large flat-screen TV with various game consoles and controllers scattered about. There’s a coffee table to his right with empty guns and bullets littered across the surface, some fallen onto the floor. There are also two my little ponies sitting proudly amongst the chaos. And what looks like a now cold cup of tea.
My little ponies and guns. Must be Deadpool.
And suddenly the details of last night hit him like a brick. He had gotten injured trying to fix Deadpool’s mess.
Given their last bloody meet-up in Peter’s apartment, he wasn’t as hesitant in letting Deadpool fret over him. And to be fair, the extra bloodshed (which was mainly Peter’s because he’ll be dammed if anyone else got hurt) was primarily Deadpool’s fault. He’s called the merc with the mouth for a reason. While Peter is definitely guilty of quipping people beyond compare, Deadpool took it too far. And innocent bystanders were almost hurt in the lunatic’s Deadpool-induced wrath.
The baddie was arrested as per usual and a couple of young women were safe and sound, sitting in front of the ambulance, security blankets dropped over their shoulders.
Peter vaguely remembers being in a heated argument with Deadpool, berating him for being reckless and almost getting innocent people hurt. However, Peter was run down and rocking a couple nasty gashes, including one that stretched from his hip to his back. It was definitely going to scar. Along with a twisted ankle that was crushed under some rubble at one point, Peter wasn’t getting himself home anytime soon.
Thus, regardless of the heated argument, he was put on Deadpool’s couch. Rather begrudgingly he might add. He swore he was only going to sleep a couple hours and then leave, which his body surprisingly agreed with considering the nightmare that woke him in the first place.
His ankle is now fairly healed, at least good enough to swing home, and the many gashes that once littered his body are now closed up, some leaving tiny scars in their wake. The one on his back still felt tender, but it was a dull hum as Deadpool insisted on slathering it in Neosporin. Why he had all of these supplies Peter will never know.
Now that he thinks about it doesn’t Deadpool automatically heal anyway? So what’s the point of having all of these medical supplies? Peter surely doesn’t come around enough to warrant Deadpool keeping it for him, right? At least that’s what he tells himself.
People besides Aunt May being too nice to him make him suspicious.
However, this does not fix the problem of the now damp spot on Deadpool’s couch…that he cannot wash. He groans, head falling lamely into his hands. He can feel the hot shame settling in his stomach, slowly curling its way up into his chest. His ears are burning underneath the mask, he just knows it. It’s always been his tell. Gwen used to call him out relentlessly on it. Thankfully being Spiderman requires a mask which conveniently helps hide his embarrassment…and copious amounts of blood that tends to get caked onto his body but he’s not going to mull over that.
Maybe he could just quietly use Deadpool’s shower and then leave? Deadpool used his shower once…surely he wouldn’t mind if Peter used his in return. That sounds fair.
He just hoped Deadpool had unscented soap because he couldn’t stand the artificial scents that soap tended to have, it drove him crazy. He knows Deadpool wears cinnamon deodorant but since their last encounter, he stopped wearing it. Peter didn’t know whether to be grateful or disheartened. He hated cinnamon. But he kind of associated Deadpool with that smell now, so he missed it if he was being honest.
But even if he were to shower…that doesn’t solve the issue of his suit. He doesn’t have any spare clothes on and he would literally throw up if he had to put the sweaty, bloody, grimy suit back on after showering. Blood already made him queasy enough as it is. Maybe Deadpool had something lying around that he could borrow. Not steal. Borrow. He will be sure to wash them once he gets home. If the communal washers on the first floor decide to work that is.
But first shower. He will worry about clothes later and if he really has to, he’ll shove his suit back on and immediately shower again when he gets home. Although he made his suit as comfortable as possible, his many sensory issues do not permit him to wear it as long as he has, let alone sleep in it.
Peter begrudgingly hauled himself up and shakily stood on his two feet, holding the armrest for support. He still felt a little sore from the night previous but that usually always comes with his job description.
“Ugh, this sucks,” he mumbled into the darkness of the apartment.
Before he showered he figured he should at least attempt to clean the couch. Although it certainly looks like it has seen better days. The only thing that could be worse than this is Deadpool waking up to this mess.
If the universe loved him even a little bit (it doesn’t) then maybe he’s not home (he is) and he sleeps through the shower turning on (he won’t).
Luckily, Deadpool had the bare minimum of cleaning supplies underneath the otherwise empty sink cupboard. And from many instances of Peter’s… problems, to put it lightly, he certainly knows how to clean them up spotless. He damn near scrubbed the couch clean. And it smells faintly of lavender now which is a plus. All that’s left for it is to dry. Which is the perfect time for Peter to take his well-needed shower.
Damn, Peter should start cleaning full-time. Not his own apartment of course. Who has time for that? But cleaning people’s shit part-time may be better than being verbally abused by Jameson. A shame his talents are put to waste.
Peter’s job crisis aside, he made sure to put the cleaning supplies back exactly as he found them and slipped into the bathroom, the door thankfully closing silently. He was sure his luck would allow for every door to have the squeakiest hinges possible, yet he was in the bathroom with no mishaps.
His Parker Luck will probably kick in later…maybe the washing machines are still broken despite maintenance swearing they would be fixed as of last week. Hint: they were not. And his clothes are due for a good washing.
The moment he stepped into the spray of warm water he let out a deep sigh, his skin humming pleasantly at the near-perfect water pressure. He can’t remember the last time he showered in warm water. His water heater is miserable in his complex with it running out within the first five minutes.
He hissed once the water touched his back, but he knew it was necessary so despite his pained expression, he stayed put.
His eyes were pinched shut and his right hand was placed firmly on the wall to help keep himself upright. But as soon as he lost himself in the warm water hitting his back, the repetitive motion lulling him into a trance, his spidey sense flared making his hairs stand on end. Before he could assess and open the shower curtain, the door was kicked in and a silhouette of a gun stared him down at the other side of the curtain. He heard the gun cock, followed by a gravely voice laced with murderous intent, “You got three seconds to get your ass outta my shower.”
Peter felt an intense shiver go down his spine. His spidey sense was now blaring in his head so loud he could hardly think straight. He knows there is a gun pointed at his face thank you spidey sense.
He put his hands up in mock surrender on the other side of the curtain, “Deadpool, it’s just me. You made me spend the night here remember?” He tried to keep his voice soft and free of panic even though his heart hammering in his chest. Calmly relaying last night’s events seemed like his best option. Fighting Deadpool in this state definitely won’t do him any good.
He wouldn’t want to fight him anyway. While he knows what Deadpool is capable of he knows he would never hurt him. If Deadpool would recognize him that is.
Rather, Peter suddenly feels acutely aware of his naked body littered with scars and the certain assets that he lacks. “Please pool…it’s me,” he squeaks incredibly ashamed of his current state behind the curtain. Again, he could feel his ears burn as his tell-tale sign of utter embarrassment. Of course, this would happen to him. Parker Luck indeed.
“Spidey…?” He asks incredulously, gun slowly lowering.
“If you don’t believe me,” he says hands still up, “my suit is on the floor.”
Peter sees the gun lowered to the floor as Deadpool leans down to pick up the suit.
Before Peter could think better of it he blurts out, “Don’t touch it!”
Immediately, Wade stills slowly standing up and leaving the suit forgotten on the floor. “God damn, Spidey you sure know how to scare a guy awake. Fuck.” He can see the silhouette of Deadpool’s hand rub down his face.
Peter lowers his hands once he realizes he’s in the clear and wraps them tightly around his body, turning to face the wall just in case. If Deadpool could see anything through the curtain he certainly saw it by now. And in the grand scheme of things, Peter really doesn’t care if people find out if he’s trans. He’s grateful enough to be fully passing at this stage of the game. But the secret identity paired with his body insecurity makes his anxiety skyrocket. Not to mention he would like to come out on his own terms. You know. Like any normal person.
The last person to see him in this state was none other than Gwen Stacy…and that took a year of the uttermost tender, love, and care to get to that milestone. In a weird twisted way, half of him wants Gwen to be the last. But he knows that is unreasonable. That doesn’t stop him from hating every second of this moment.
“I-I’m sorry I just, I felt so gross I needed to shower. I didn’t mean to, uh, wake you…or…yeah.,” he finished lamely. He’s already cringing at the words that just came out of his mouth.
Smooth Parker. Smooth.
It was quiet for a while, Deadpool completely still. “I could have hurt you,” he says softly, almost inaudible.
But due to Peter’s enhanced hearing, he certainly caught every word. Including the heartbreaking lilt that went along with it. “Deadpool,” he says still facing the wall, arms wrapped tight, “the last thing you would do would hurt me. I know that.”
“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” he ground out, leather gloves clenching.
“I do. Trust me, I do. But please,” he sighs “can we…can we just finish this later? I’m sorry but I am so uncomfortable right now I just need to finish showering. Please.”
Deadpool turns to leave, face glued to the floor as if he understood Peter’s unsaid plea to not look at him. “The door’s kicked in so I can’t close it, but I will stay in the bedroom. Let me know if you need anything.”
Before Peter could utter a thanks, he was gone.
His heart was still beating wildly in his chest at the notion of his identity being discovered, but the hairs on the back of his neck finally laid flat. He sighed. Guess the only thing left to do is shower.
Once he finished he stood in the water for another minute or so, psyching himself up to step into the cold air with nothing on. He peeked out, nose barely past the curtain, to only be met with a towel folded neatly next to him on the toilet. As well as clothes underneath it.
Peter took one more double take to make sure no one was around before turning off the water and drying off.
His suit still lay on the floor where he left it, untouched. His mask is on the counter.
He shoved the mask on, his unruly curly hair already starting to dry. He’ll deal with his bird's nest later. As for the clothes, they were at least two sizes too big, the pants hanging dangerously low on his hips and the long sleeves of the shirt going slightly past his fingertips.
He made work of tying the drawstring as tight as possible, high on his waist, and rolling up the sleeves and pantlegs of Deadpool’s clothing so it would at least fit a little better.
He walked out into the living room apprehensively, feeling out of place in clothes that were not his own. He already felt insecure enough as it is and while he has a decent amount of muscle, he had nowhere near the amount that Deadpool has, making Peter look so much smaller than he actually is. He had to deal with being smaller on average almost all of his life. The last thing he needs is to be reminded of that.
Alas, he found Deadpool standing in front of the stovetop making some sort of breakfast. It smelt amazing whatever it was. He stopped before he entered said kitchen to announce his presence. Not everyone has enhanced hearing like him.
Before Peter could open his mouth though, Deadpool apologized firmly. “I’m sorry.”
“Huh? What…I should be apologizing.”
“No, I could have seriously hurt you. I was the one who insisted you stay here I should have known. But I let my stupid instinct take over instead. I’m a fucking idiot. And…I’m sorry for last night too…if it counts for anything. I shouldn’t have put you in that position. I know better.”
“No really-“
“But I made breakfast to make up for it…if…you still wanna stay that is.”
Deadpool’s head stayed down, never moving throughout his speech. If he was a dog, Peter could imagine his tail tucked between his legs and ears laid flat on his head. It weirdly twisted his heart to see Deadpool berate himself so thoroughly. If anyone understands paranoia and being skittish, it’s Peter. Hell, he’s the king of it.
Peter nervously rubbed his hands on his pants. The fabric was really soft, but not the itchy kind of velvet. The good kind, like worn cotton. The long sleeve was actually really soft too. A thin and airy material. He appreciated how they felt on his skin, not irritating his senses in any way. It helped ground him to continuously rub his hands along the soft material before he psyched himself up to speak.
God, he really hopes he doesn’t say the wrong thing.
“Okay well for starters you’re not an idiot, if anything I should take that title. And two, I should be thanking you. Really.”
He still did not lift his head. “I made you uncomfortable…and put you in danger.”
Peter stepped closer, his arm reaching out tentatively but not yet touching, as if he was approaching a scared animal.
“Deadpool, if I was uncomfortable enough to be upset with you, I would have left by now. You know that. And you definitely know I can take a lot more than whatever happened last night. And this morning. I’m fine.”
Deadpool quickly glances up when Peter tacks on “scouts honor” with his two fingers up in a salute.
It doesn’t even get a hint of a reaction. Rather, Deadpool whips his head back down with his fists balled up.
“I worked so hard to get you to trust me and now it’s all for nothing cuz’ I fuckin messed it up. And now you’re just gonna leave and I’ll probably never see you again and I’ll have to-“
“hey hey hey, I’m not going anywhere.” Peter took another step forward and softly placed his hand on Deadpool’s arm and gave a light squeeze. At first, he felt his muscles tense, but once Peter squeezed gently, it softened. “I’m okay. I just…uh…you know. Not the best with,” his voice dropped to a soft whisper “People…seeing me. Like that.”
Deadpool took a step closer as well, their bodies almost flush together. Peter could smell the gunpowdery-type aroma that usually clings to his suit. And while Peter did find it repulsive initially, it started to become comforting about a month ago. Not that he would admit that.
He breathed in deep, relishing the familiar scent, and let his head drop towards Deadpool, his forehead resting on his chest. He closed his eyes and continued to breathe deeply, trying to lull his heart to a calmer pace.
Deadpool’s hands hovered awkwardly above Peter, unsure if he should return the touch or not, despite the soft grip Peter had on Deadpool’s arm.
“Can I touch you?” He whispered, a voice just as quiet as Peter’s was earlier.
Peter nodded against his chest.
Deadpool leaned down so his mouth was right by Peter’s ear. “You know what I’m gonna ask. I need a yes, or a no sweetheart.”
“Yes, it’s okay,” He whispered, forehead never leaving its place on the firm chest beneath it. He took his hand off Deadpool’s bicep as he felt Deadpool shift and curled his hand into his upper abdomen. He finally felt Deadpool’s hands wrap around him, one snaked around his waist and one around his back, allowing Deadpool to pull him close.
“I should have known that you would be uncomfortable with me standing there. Clearly, I don’t like my hot bod on display either.” His voice was still soft and gentle, no longer containing that hard edge that it had in the bathroom, nor the distraught whimpers from earlier.
Peter snorted, “It’s okay you’re forgiven. And thanks…for everything. You let me sleep here. You had medical supplies for me. You had unscented soap in your bathroom. The same one I have. And you lent me these really soft clothes. And you made breakfast. So yeah. We’re even.”
“Hardly, I’d give you the whole world if I could,” he whispered, rubbing firmly up and down Peter’s back electing a deep sigh from Peter.
“You don’t mean that,” he mumbled while curling closer into Deadpool’s suit.
“I mean everything I say, baby boy.” He took his hand off Peter’s back and used it to gently lift his chin. “You can ask for anything.”
Peter felt his ears grow warm again as he whipped his head back down to Deadpool’s chest in a futile attempt to hide from him. The mask did a decent job but it wasn’t enough.
He said it with such earnestness. How is he not supposed to combust on the spot? Peter hasn’t done this in….way too long. He shouldn’t be allowed to do this.
Peter felt his heart hammer wildly in his chest and his hands grow damp. Why is he so nervous?
If anyone was witnessing this display of two masked men displaying such intimate forms of expression it would seem quite odd. But Spiderman and Deadpool have always been a bit odd, haven’t they? They never really fit in anywhere with any of the other supers.
Deadpool immediately removed his arms at Peter’s unexpected movement, arms hovering in uncertainty. “Do you want me to step away?” He asked, voice soft.
“No…you can put them back…if you want.”
Deadpool scoffed, “If I want. If it’s what I wanted you would never leave my arms. But I know you wouldn’t like that. And that’s okay.”
Before Deadpool could lament about his unrequited love for Spiderman, Peter asked incredulously, “Who said…” Peter took a deep inhale and tried again.
“Who said I wouldn’t like it,” he mumbled, face buried in Deadpool’s chest, his ears still burning underneath his mask.
While Deadpool’s arms are awkwardly hovering not quite touching Peter, Peter lightly grasped into his suit and had his face firmly buried in his broad chest. He can hear Deadpool’s heartbeat beating firmly.
When Deadpool looked down at Peter fully curled into his front, face obscured from view as if Deadpool could actually see the endearing embarrassment all over his face behind the mask. Which he can’t, but he can certainly hear it and it makes him want to faint. How can someone be so…fucking cute.
He can’t believe Spidey said he likes his arms around him. His stupid big ol dumb arms. Oh my god, he said he liked it.
Deadpool suddenly held Peter at arm’s length, briefly tightening his grip on Peter’s shoulders and spluttering at Peter’s bold remark. “You, I mean I thought, I just…fuck webs. You can’t just say that to me and expect me not to malfunction.”
Even though Deadpool was at a loss for words his thumb still gently rubbed across Peter’s shoulder in a calming, repetitive movement. Whether that was for Peter's or Deadpool’s benefit, neither knew.
“I don’t know,” Peter mumbled, nervous with the mercenary’s full attention on him. “It feels…nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yeah, nice. You feel…nice.” He finally looked up at Deadpool. “But only in like the right scenario. When my skin isn’t tingling then it just makes me feel itchy. Or if it’s too hot because I hate being touched when it’s hot. And if it’s one of those weirdly soft blankets it’s weird because it makes me feel stuffy and then I don’t want anything on me and…” Peter suddenly cut himself off to turn to Deadpool and look at the eerily still expression that is plastered on the mask. “Sorry, that’s probably weird. And annoying. You really don’t need to understand my physical touch preferences.” He peeled himself away from Deadpool’s hands and took a step back, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look in Deadpool’s oversized clothing, with roles up pant legs and straights tied tight under a shirt that ends at his thighs.
“No, please. Keep going. I’m taking notes.”
Peter crossed his arms, preparing himself for some form of sarcastic comment but nothing came. Only the whites of Deadpool’s suit started back in silence.
“You’re being serious?”
“When am I not serious.”
Peter looked dead on and even through the mask, he’s sure he looked unimpressed.
“Don’t answer that,” Deadpool corrected, holding a finger up to silence the comment that wasn’t going to leave Peter’s mouth in the first place. Because he is completely gobsmacked at the emotionally charged yet ridiculous conversation they are having right now.
Deadpool readjusted, leaning himself onto the counter and crossing his arms, suit straining pleasantly against his arms. Not that Peter was looking, of course not. He doesn’t even like people’s arms like that. Not his hyperfixation of choice, rather. He’s more of a hands person if does say so himself but that’s beside the point Deadpool is speaking Peter, focus!
“I just want to make you comfortable, webs. Really. I would do anything.”
At the way he said anything, Peter felt his skin crawl and his stomach drop. But not in a bad way. In the “I’m confused if I like this or not kind of way because I’m a fucking idiot.” This is exactly why Gwen was his one and only relationship. He can’t do this. He is quite literally going to short-circuit in the next five minutes.
As if Deadpool read his mind (did he?) he suddenly shoots his hands up in the air and shrieks “Ooooh the bacon!” And briskly turns around the finish breakfast.
Did Peter forget to mention that it is currently four in the morning? Because Deadpool is cooking him breakfast at four in the fucking morning.
And yet they still gleefully ate breakfast as if they had never been fed in their lives. All stupid jokes, exaggerated stories, and half-hearted banter as if they were eating their messy hotdogs on a rooftop after Peter’s patrol. The familiarity of it all made Peter’s skin hum pleasantly.
There was no touching besides the occasional socked foot lightly brushing against Peter’s own. But he knew that he wanted more. He didn’t dare to ask though. Tonight was enough physical contact for him for a year.
And even when they were done eating, Deadpool cleared the table and let Peter nod off, his head pillowed on his arms.
Deadpool silently washed all the dishes while occasionally peaking at Peter’s sleeping form. He desperately wanted to move him to the couch with a blanket draped across his lithe form to be more comfortable but Deadpool was terrified of waking him up.
Instead, he draped a blanket around his shoulders and walked off to go wash Peter’s suit. He knew that Peter told him not to touch it, but he knew that Peter wouldn't want to swing home with clothes on that weren't his. Even though, Deadpool made sure they were the softest and comfiest clothes he owned. Hopefully, he wasn't crossing any boundaries. Like he said, he'd do anything for Spidey. And that included scrubbing a suit that wasn't his own. He worked his damn hardest to get every bloodstain out possible and hand-washed it in his tub for good measure.
When Peter awoke the suit was neatly folded in front of him and Deadpool was nowhere to be seen. A blanket was still around his shoulders and the table was cleared.
Who knew Deadpool was such a homemaker?
He can't even be mad that he washed his suit.
Later that evening, when Peter gets home from his classes, he picks up his burner phone to see three texts from Deadpool at 1 p.m.
'Why the doodles does my couch smell like lavender'
'I didn’t even know I had cleaning supplies'
'Not complaining tho'
He lets his lips curl up into a smile, unable to suppress it at the ridiculousness of his texts. He forgot that he even had an accident today.
Peter put the phone down without replying and looked over to his suit that he left to hang once he got home from Deadpool’s place.
If Peter tries hard enough maybe he can run into him. As a coincidence. After patrolling of course.